


Sprawling on a Pin

by PhoenixGryffin



Category: Hedda Gabler - Ibsen, IBSEN Henrik - Works
Genre: 1890s, Canon Compliant, Depression, F/M, Fear of Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Marriage of Convenience, Pregnancy, Sex-Repulsed Character, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixGryffin/pseuds/PhoenixGryffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all the tales you’d read as a child, the dragons were perfectly happy to lock the princesses in towers, but the princesses had never expressed their feelings on the matter. Maybe they’d hated it. Maybe their princes had never arrived and they’d spent the rest of their lives hating the dragons, hating the towers they were trapped in, hating themselves for the impulsive choices that had led them up to this moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sprawling on a Pin

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: There's a character who has suicidal thoughts, and there's a character who has sex with another out of a sense of obligation (due to the societal/marriage norms of the time), despite being repulsed by it. If either of these things could potentially trigger you, please act accordingly.

You’re twenty-eight when you finally figure it out.

It isn’t like you hadn’t known what was going to happen, though. In the back of your mind, you’ve always known. Even before your father died you’d been aware that you would have to eventually find a husband, but it had never seemed real to you until this year, when you turned twenty-eight and discovered that most of the men who’d originally courted you had already found their own wives, and the ones who hadn’t had moved on to younger beauties- girls with rosy cheeks, ruby-red lips, and luscious locks. You’re twenty-eight, (almost thirty, _god_ , have you really lived for so _long_?) and you’re running out of time.

You’re twenty-eight, and you’ve got to find a husband. There’s simply no way around it. You’re not going to die an old maid surrounded by the gossip of people who wonder why General Gabler’s daughter never married, who whisper _it’s certainly a pity she never found a husband, but there must be some reason for it_ behind your back. People would always talk, and you’d rather die than cause a scandal like that. So you’ll just have to force yourself to find someone.

It’s a late night, fairly warm out, and you’re being escorted home from a fairly dull party- _a quiet affair, of course, wouldn’t want to terrify the ladies with lively practices, would we now_ , one of the men had said, winking lewdly in your direction. You hadn’t replied. It wouldn’t have been right.

Your escort is a certain man named George Tesman, a respectable academic, one who’ll hopefully be famous someday. Right now, though, he’s clearly grasping at straws for something to say.

“Beautiful night, uh?” he asks with a shaky voice, nervously wringing his hands so rapidly it’s a wonder they don’t fall off. You simply nod. He clears his throat as if to say something else but doesn’t, only continuing to wring his hands even faster, and you feel a stab of pity for him despite yourself. At least he’s _trying_ to talk to you, which is more than you can say for a lot of your old admirers now.

“It is a beautiful night,” you reply, and he looks up when you speak, the expression on his face one of pure relief.

“Yes,” he says, “it is.” Tesman falls awkwardly silent after this, and you fight the urge to smirk. He’s clearly not as skilled in the art of conversation as you are. You have your father to thank for that skill. You have your father to thank for a lot of things, really.

The two of you are passing by the old Falk mansion, and Tesman’s awkwardly cleared his throat at least three times by now. You've got to say something to break the dreadful silence.

“Did you know,” you lie casually, gesturing to the large house, “I’ve always dreamed of living here. It’s really the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.”

“Have you really always dreamed of it, Hedda? Uh?”

“Yes, I truly have,” you say, in order to keep up the charade and make the whole scene less glaringly awkward.

He smiles at this- it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him smile, and it’s a strangely stilted smile, as though he’s rarely had occasion to use it; that’s probably true, at least where women are involved. You’ve often suspected that Tesman has very little experience in the way of romance.

“I also have, actually,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows at this statement before you can stop yourself- when you’d talked about liking the house, you’d just been trying to make things less awkward between Tesman and yourself, you hadn’t actually _meant_ any of what you’d said. Tesman’s apparently unaware of this.

He continues, “It really is a wonderful house, isn’t it?” He looks to you as if for confirmation, and you simply nod, unsure how to respond.

* * *

 

It's another late summer night; you're returning home from yet another party, and Tesman's your escort again. The two of you are walking together in complete silence.

“You realize,” says Tesman after a while, apparently having gained a bit more confidence since the last time the two of you had talked, “that I’m going to be a professor soon, at least as long as things go according to plan?”

“Oh, are you?” you reply, lying again to keep the conversation going. “I wasn’t aware.”

“I am,” he begins, “and when I’m a professor I’ll have quite a bit of money.”

“Yes, I do suppose you will.”

“I could buy the Falk mansion,” he blurts out unexpectedly. “We could live in it then, you and I, if you wanted to. Uh?”

To say that you’re slightly taken aback is an understatement.

“The two of us?” you say.

“Of- of course,” he stammers nervously. “I could certainly take care of you, I have money, if you wanted to get married perhaps?”

Tesman’s certainly not the type of man you’d pictured yourself marrying. You don’t think you love him. Of course, the only man you’d even remotely thought about loving, Eilert Lovborg, has fallen so far in society that it’s doubtful he’ll ever recover. You haven’t seen him for years, which is something that’s ultimately for the best. It’s best for you not to be associated with him, best not to potentially cause a scandal. That would never do. Never.

You don’t think you love Tesman, but he’s respectable, and he’s an academic, and there’s nothing altogether strange about him. He isn’t exactly at the level of social class you are, but he’s going to be well-known someday, you’re sure of it. He’s got money and he’s willing to care for you, and you’re twenty-eight. At this point you’ve really got to take what you can get.

“I would be delighted,” you say coolly, and he smiles that strangely inexperienced smile once more.

“Really? I mean, you will?” he asks, and you nod wordlessly. “Why, that’s fantastic! We’ll have to start making plans then, correct? Uh?”

“Of course,” you reply. You don’t love Tesman now, but maybe you can grow to love him. Maybe. For both of your sakes, you truly hope so. You _want_ to love him, want to have the loving marriage you’d always dreamed about, want to be happy.

* * *

 

It’s your wedding day.

It's your wedding day, and your lacy white dress is absolutely _gorgeous_ , like something a princess would wear, and you're beginning to have second thoughts. You’d assumed the love would come in time, assumed that you could get yourself to adore Tesman, but although you’ve tried valiantly nothing’s come of your efforts. If anything, your feelings for him have grown more and more towards hate than love; you’ve grown to feel a vague dislike for his strange speech affectations, the way he always prattles on about something or other in the world of academia. But it’s much too late to back out of the wedding now. People would talk.

In the end, though, everything’s going to work out. It has to. You’re going on a trip abroad for your honeymoon. If that doesn’t improve your mood, then nothing will.

The wedding goes by without a hitch. It’s over far too quickly, and suddenly you’re no longer the beautiful and single Hedda Gabler; you’re Hedda Tesman, tethered to an academic. You’re Hedda Tesman now, and you’re no longer free.

Once the whole business is over, you immediately corner Tesman alone.

“We’re going on our honeymoon now, aren’t we?” you hiss none too gently. “Have you made the plans?”

“I-” he begins awkwardly, “well, yes, I have, Hedda, but-”

“But what?” You’re not going to let Tesman take this one victory away from you that easily.

“Hedda dear, I don’t know. We don’t have that much money. My trip will be paid for by a research grant, but it would cost a lot for you to accompany me,” Tesman says, and a sense of fury begins to build in you- this is the _one_ thing that’s been lifting your spirits throughout the wedding, the one thing you still have to live for, and he’s _not_ going to take it away.

“Tesman,” you say, forcing your voice to stay calm and sugary-sweet, “you did promise. I’ve already told everyone we’re going abroad on our honeymoon, and it wouldn’t look right to back out now.”

He pauses, and you tense in apprehension. If he doesn’t agree-

“I suppose you have a point, then. Uh?” he says, and a wave of relief washes over you. You’re leaving, you’re really leaving, and all this ridiculousness about getting married has been worth it.

“I’ll buy tickets for the next train, then,” he says, and immediately walks away to do just that, leaving you alone.

* * *

 

You've always privately wondered what your wedding night would be like, whether you'll enjoy it. Tesman had never been the man you'd thought you'd marry, but it doesn't matter. Everything will turn out fine. Perfectly fine. Beautiful, even. It has to.

* * *

 

That night, Tesman fucks you into the mattress, grunting while you simply lie still and stare over his shoulder at nothing in particular. His weight shifts on top of your body, and for a moment you feel as if you’re going to be crushed to pieces. He raggedly gasps for breath like a dying fish or something equally repulsive, and you shut your eyes tightly. This isn’t how you’d pictured it in your head. The marriage consummation was supposed to be pleasing, but in reality you’re too close and too hot and the sounds of Tesman’s labored breathing in your ear are much too loud. A small part of you almost wants him to stop, but that wouldn’t be right. It’s your _wedding_ night.

When it’s over after what feels like hours and hours, Tesman finally rolls off of your body, sighs almost blissfully, and is asleep in nearly two seconds. You try to sleep as well, to be happy in the knowledge that it’s your wedding night and you’ll finally be going abroad, but at the moment you can’t summon anything more than a sense of shame, of revulsion. It doesn’t make sense. This is how it’s supposed to be.

You curl up into a tiny ball underneath the bedsheets, bury your face in the pillow, and quietly sob yourself to sleep, not knowing what’s wrong with you.

The next night, it happens again. You’re ready this time, and you tolerate the closeness and the creaking bedsprings and all the other unpleasant details of the whole affair once more, because it’s what you’re supposed to do. That’s how it’s going to be from now on, then. You’re married, and there’s no backing out. It wouldn't be right.

But you’re on your way out, in a sense- you’re finally going to get the chance to see the world outside of Norway. Married life will be much more tolerable there, you’re sure of it.

* * *

 

You’re terribly, _terribly_ bored.

The honeymoon trip abroad was supposed to be an escape; that was why you’d insisted on going despite the cost. You were supposed to be free. Instead, you’re trapped in a strange place with no one for company but Tesman, and he seems to only be capable of conversing about a very limited number of things, most of them related to his special academic field.

It’s only been two months, and already you’re tired, tired of everything you’ve seen and done, but tired of the constant company of Tesman most of all. Things might be more tolerable if he was gone. You haven’t been alone for more than a few minutes at a time, and it’s absolutely _infuriating_.

The worst part of it all is that there’s no one you can talk to about any of it. There’s no one of your social class here, only foreigners whom you don’t know and don’t quite care to; they’re people who probably wouldn’t understand your problems even if you did get the chance to talk about them.

“Hedda?” asks Tesman absentmindedly from the desk where he’s sitting, reading over some paper or another.

“Yes?” you reply, trying to keep your voice as calm as possible.

“Did I ever tell you about my slippers?”

This is the fifth time he’s mentioned those infernal slippers. You’ve been keeping track. It’s not as if there’s anything better to do here.

“You already did,” you say flatly.

“I _do_ miss them,” says Tesman, apparently completely missing the ire in your voice. “I hope they haven’t been lost or anything. Uh?”

“As do I,” is your reply, and it’s true. If the slippers have been lost, you know you’ll _never_ hear the end of it.

Tesman isn’t making love to you nearly as much as he did at the beginning of the trip, and you aren’t quite sure how to feel about that. On one hand, it would be an absolute lie to say that you enjoy the suffocating feeling of him on top of you, inside you, that you enjoy being trapped underneath him and bored out of your mind. No, you’ve never enjoyed it, and at this point you doubt you ever will, probably due to some fault in your character.

On the other hand, though, now he’s constantly researching at all hours of the day, eschewing potential sightseeing opportunities for the chance to 'get ahead on my research, uh?' as he would say. Even during the late hours of the night he still looks through those books, rifling furiously through pages by the light of multiple lamps and keeping you awake when all you want is to sleep. You haven't slept well in what feels like ages.

"Tesman," you say once during one of his late-night research sessions, "it's very dark outside."

"It is quite dark, Hedda," he replies, flipping a page. He’s so _obtuse_.

You try a different tactic. “Are you nearly done with your research?”

“Not quite,” Tesman replies, glancing back at you. “I’ve still got quite a bit to look up here; there’s this interesting bit about the Middle Ages that I hadn’t known before.”

“Tesman,” you say, barely managing to conceal your irritation, “surely you must want to go to sleep at this hour.”

“Oh no,” laughs Tesman jovially as you grit your teeth, “this research is quite invigorating.”

“Will you _at least_ put the light out? I’m incredibly tired.” You’re being very blunt, but Tesman has never been someone who understood the fine intricacies of speech.

“Ah," Tesman says after a very long pause. "I suppose I can do that." He does turn one of them off, but he still lets the other burn, and you're too exhausted to press him further. This is your life now, then; you've doomed yourself to hearing about the history of civilization everlastingly. You married a man you'd known you didn't love at the time, and now it's too late to escape.

* * *

 

When you were very small, you'd read fairy tales about princesses, about the loyal knights that saved those princesses from various dragons. You'd liked the dragons best of all, even going so far as to announce to your father that you were going to be a dragon one day. He had simply chuckled absentmindedly at this, but you had always remained convinced that it would be a reality.

Now that you're older, you realize you'll never have the chance to be a dragon. You were always going to be the princess. You're the princess, and you're trapped with a dragon, a bespectacled dragon whom you spread your legs for because it's what's expected of you; you're locked in a tower with a dragon who never ceases his inane prattle about ancient artifacts, and the man who might have been your knight in another life is a complete disgrace to society and therefore utterly unfit for marriage. Just your luck.

In all the tales you’d read as a child, the dragons were perfectly happy to lock the princesses in towers, but the princesses had never expressed their feelings on the matter. Maybe they’d hated it. Maybe their princes had never arrived and they’d spent the rest of their lives hating the dragons, hating the towers they were trapped in, hating themselves for the impulsive choices that had led them up to this moment.

* * *

 

It's been three months, and you've learned that this whole ordeal will last for about six. You're halfway there, and you don't know if you can make it another three months with only Tesman for company.

Tesman is incredibly excited over the prospect of getting his doctorate. You don't care- that's not true, you do care a bit because it may be helpful for societal advancement in the long run, but as of now he won't shut up about it. There's nothing better to do than listen to him go on and on about being a doctor, so unfortunately you do.

"Just think, Hedda," he says, "first this, and then perhaps a professorship!" You nod listlessly, past the point of caring.

* * *

 

Persephone, when she ate the pomegranate seeds, only had to stay with Hades for six months of the year. When that six-month time period was over, she was allowed to return home, finally free from her husband.

You envy her that. You’ll be returning home after six months as well, but you’ll never be free, not really.

* * *

 

It's been four months.

Tesman's in bed with you, and you involuntarily tense as he draws nearer to your body, as his hand lightly traces over your breasts and then your stomach-

"Hedda?" He's stopped moving his hand, letting it rest. You wish he'd stop this ridiculousness, that he'd just get the whole thing over with so you can sleep and finally be away from him, in a way.

"Yes, Tesman?" you say wearily.

"Oh, call me George, will you?" he pleads. "We've been married for four months, after all."

“Four months isn’t a very long time,” you say. Tesman’s still practically a stranger to you, anyway; he may be your husband, may have slept with you multiple times, but you really can’t talk to him about _anything_.

He sighs but doesn’t press the issue. His hand is still resting on you. You wish he’d take it off.

"Hedda," he continues, "I do believe you're filling out. Uh?'

"Filling out?" you repeat, an icy chill coursing through your veins. He surely doesn't mean what you think he does. Of course not. You're being ridiculous.

"Yes," says Tesman, "you've grown a bit while we've been abroad, and it's quite nice."

He continues speaking, but you don't hear anything he says due to the panic that suddenly consumes you. It can't be true. It _can't_. Or if it is, you've simply 'filled out'. That's all. That's it.

You're not pregnant, you're not pregnant, you're _not_. You're not inhabited by a parasite, not carrying the spawn of Tesman ( _god_ , it makes you shudder to even _think_ about). You're not going to be a mother, because you're not pregnant. Absolutely not.

You feel ill, but there's nothing you can do about it because Tesman's stopped talking and begun his horrible lovemaking routine, so you simply breathe in, breathe out, try to reassure yourself that everything will turn out alright in the end. None of your reassurances work. You're still trapped, and you're still married to Tesman, and you always will be.

* * *

 

It's been five months.

There's only one month left of this hell, and then you can go home, you can-

No, you can't. The instant you get back you're going to be relocated into the Falk mansion (why, oh  _why_ did you ever decide to tell Tesman you liked it so much), with no one but Tesman and possibly a maid for company. You're never going home again. Different tower, same dragon.

At some point during the past month, you turned twenty-nine. You didn't tell Tesman. You want one thing you can keep to yourself, however small.

"Hedda," says Tesman without warning from the table where he's working, "I quite miss my slippers."

Twenty-six. He's mentioned the slippers twenty-six times throughout the entirety of this trip. You could scream.

You don't scream. It wouldn't be right. Instead, you simply nod.

If only you had your father's pistols. You'd shoot Tesman on the spot. No, you'd shoot yourself so you wouldn't ever have to deal with any of it; you'd never have to put up with any of life's 'joys' ever again.

That's a lie. You wouldn't. You're weak and you're _pathetic_ and you're a coward and you know you wouldn't do it even if the pistols were here.

* * *

 

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who was incredibly wealthy and had a father who loved her very much.

Then her father died, so she got married to a prince, a prince who was really a dragon in disguise. Everything went downhill from there.

But things turned out all right in the end.

* * *

 

The part about everything being all right is a lie and you know it.

It's been six months. You're headed back to Norway, where you'll be trapped with the dragon for so long as you both shall live. You’re headed back to the tower, where you’re going to have a child, a child you’d rather rip out of your own body than give birth to.

You'd like nothing better than to leave, to escape the life you're currently living in, and you'd do it by any means necessary.

But you can't.

People don't do such things.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from T.S. Eliot's poem _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ \- I'm not really a fan of Eliot as a person, but I really enjoy his poetry despite myself.
> 
> This actually started as an assignment I received in English class; the assignment was to write a short 1-2 page backstory for a character of our choosing, (English teacher, if you're somehow reading this, I'm sorry about everything) but I expanded it. A lot. No prizes for guessing which scenes didn't get submitted as part of the assignment.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


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